A Book Without Words
by Marie E. Brooke
Summary: In this AU dystopian England, Tessa Gray and Cecily Herondale are outcasts, refusing to follow the strict rules the government has set out for them - the rules that allow the government to control their wills and ban any form of creativity. Will Herondale's uncle is a rich governor, and Will is still grieving for his missing sister. What happens when Tessa and Will's paths cross?
1. A Tale of Two Girls

**Brooke: I'm starting another story! It's going to be -**

**Will: Lame? Stupid? **

**Brooke: Did those words even exist in the 1800s?**

**Will: They didn't, but we aren't in the 1800s, idiot. It's a futuristic AU story, remember?**

**Brooke: Oh yeah! I forgot about that! Anyways, enjoy! I hope you like it!**

**Will: *sigh* Of course you would forget... Whatever, you don't own us, so it doesn't matter. And you don't own any of the authors listed in here either, so you can't mess up their reputations! Ha!**

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><p><strong>~A Book Without Words~<strong>

_**A TID fic by**_

**Marie E. Brooke**

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><p>At the dead of night, when all the curtains were drawn and the moon, white and luminous, casted its eerie beams down on the street, there was not a sound to be heard. Even if you strained your ears and willed yourself to listen, you would not hear anything. Not a peep from a small creature, not the tiniest of creaks, not even the trace of a whisper echoing through the town. You would not hear anything, because there was nothing to be heard.<p>

But if you were different, more observant - a Rebel, perhaps - then you would've noticed the slight rustling of the bushes, the discreet sounds of footsteps, going in sync with your fast pace. The way the moonlight flickered unevenly due to some faint shadows. The way the leaves, strewn in large amounts on the concrete, were a bit _too _crunched.

And of course you would've noticed the dark silhouette darting along the chain mail fence, leaping amongst the trees without so much a sound.

Tessa Gray leapt down from the last tree - a tall, prickly evergreen - and ran soundlessly down the streets, careful to stay near the foliage lest someone see her out at this ungodly hour and suspect her intentions. Her eyes scanned the rows of identical grey houses, searching for the two special ones. She found them and raced down the small strip of concrete that separated the two.

Breathing heavily, she came to a slow stop. The alley had widened enough so that she could walk comfortably. Instead of being smooth and grey, the walls were now made of faded red bricks. Her hands skimmed across the wall and found the one loose brick. She wiggled it out, revealing a black keypad with numbers and a small screen. Without hesitation, she typed in the code: _6, 9, 3, 5,_ _4. _The screen at the top flashed green in approval and letters started to take shape. _Press your finger to the screen, _it read. Tessa complied, earning her another flash of green and an _approved _from the screen. Tessa stepped back and waited.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, making only a small clatter, the bricks in the central region of the wall started to fall away, revealing a small hole big enough for a moderately sized person. Tessa seated herself on the mouth of the tunnel and pushed herself down. The wind whipped at her hair as she zoomed down the endless slide. Well, not really endless; there was an end, sure. The end that was getting increasingly closer, and closer, and even closer -

Tessa dug her heels into the hard plastic, causing her to stop suddenly at the mouth of the tunnel and her ears to pop as a loud screeching sound penetrated the air, amplified by the tunnels close walls. Tessa, who was used to this ear-splitting procedure, ignored the noise and stepped daintily out of the slide without a further glance. Smoothing her hair down, she blinked and looked around.

Even though she came down here every day and ought to be used to the sight of it, Tessa still thought it looked amazing. Hundreds - no, _thousands - _of people were milling about in brightly colored clothing, their amiable chatter humming in the background. There were rows upon rows of assorted stalls and shops selling things from fruits to dream-catchers. The fact that it was underground did not stop the prospering black market from radiating joy and laughter.

Tessa didn't have much time to appreciate the view, however - she was engulfed in a bone-crushing hug, and all she could see was a mass of fabric before she was released. Panting, Tessa looked down at the eager face of Emma Blackthorne, her thin, pale pink lips stretched into a smile and her brown eyes twinkling.

"Em," began Tessa, "why are you still here? Shouldn't you be in bed or something?"

"Where were you?" demanded the blonde, ignoring Tessa's earlier statement completely. "You took ages!"

Tessa sighed in an exasperated manner."This is when I usually get here," she said.

"That can't be true!" protested Emma. "You're" - Emma checked her rusty, old watch - "exactly on time," she finished dully. "Dammit, why are you always right?"

Tessa couldn't resist smirking at her, but decided not to rub in the fact to the dubious 14-year old, remembering her suffocating hug. "So, where's Dru?" she asked casually, scanning the crowd for Emma's constant but absent-minded companion (and sister).

Emma's sullen expression quickly turned into one of alarm. "Dammit!" Emma smacked her forehead. "Stupid me. I told her not to wander off. Dru!" said Emma, raising her voice at the last part. She started to venture into the crowd, shouldering people away at an amazing speed. "Drusilla!"

Tessa glanced after her. This happened so often it was practically routine. Tessa paid it no heed and proceeded to delve further into the crowd, searching for her stall. She finally located the small red shop and let herself in.

A bell dinged as she walked in. "Got any customers, Cecily?" she asked the younger raven-haired girl, who was behind the cash register, counting up her money.

Cecily returned her question with a toothy grin. "Loads," she said enthusiastically. "You're really doing a good job with the books, you book thief," she added, referencing her job and the title of the book peeking out from her bag.

Tessa shrugged. "Hey, we need the money. Besides, the government is corrupted, not allowing creativity of any kind, as stated clearly in Confederacy Article thirty-three. Well, not the corrupted part. Oh, you get the idea. Anyways, great literture should be preserved. Charles Dickens, a great author, used to be worshipped. But then the _stupid _government came along and stole all writer's glory, along with everybody's creativity! Outrageous! And - "

Cecily felt obligated to mention that Charles Dickens wasn't the greatest author of all time (it was believed to be J.K. Rowling, according to the Black Book of Revolt) nor did the government take away people's creativity - in fact, they had done quite the contrary. Banning all forms of creativity (which had, admittedly been worded differently) had only encouraged the sport. After all, rules are meant to be broken. Institutes (a code name for illegal safe havens such as the one that Tessa and Cecily were residing in) were suddenly popping up everywhere and there were numerous protests popping up, some of which the government studiously ignored. Besides, the fact that the government had banned all forms of creativity was miniscule compared to the law against growing food in one's own backyard. Not that there were backyards anymore. The government had gotten rid of those, too.

"Aren't we defying the law?" commented Cecily, interrupting Tessa mid-rant.

"Pretty much," agreed Tessa, forgetting about her outrage towards the government for two seconds, "but I think _Cadair Morgenstern _is the real criminal."

"Oh, yes," said Cecily, smiling wickedly. "_Such _a criminal."

"Writing books left and right," said Tessa mournfully.

"And good ones too. It must annoy the government," added Cecily sadly.

"Her books are complete and utter rubbish!" corrected Tessa.

"Well, that's what Cadair Morgenstern thinks, not the rest of the world," said Cecily.

"Well, Cadair Morgenstern is right," said Tessa firmly.

Cecily rolled her eyes.

Tessa gave her a look. "Never mind. We should start shelving these books." She slung her bookbag off her shoulder, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor and making all the books spill out.

Cecily let loose an annoyed sigh. "Great. Thanks for making life _so _much easier," she huffed, bending down to pick up a book.

"It's not a big deal, you know," said Tessa, who had already shelved five books and was working on her sixth. "Anyways, how many books did we sell _exactly_?" asked Tessa, changing the subject.

Cecily shrugged. "Today? Beats me. I dunno...Somewhere in the twenties." Cecily shrugged again. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters!" flared Tessa. "The money we're earning is being used to put the food on the table! We're lucky that we even have enough money for food, that we found an Institute and not a jail. The money we make is precious, Cecily, and should _not _be taken for granted," ended Tessa with a stern glare.

"Oh, come on, loosen up a bit," said Cecily, jostling Tessa. "We earn more than enough money, with you writing all those bestsellers."

Tessa was not swayed. "Cecily!" she whisper-shouted dramatically, grabbing the other girl by the shoulders. "Look around you!" She gestured wildly. "Can you _see _all those unfortunate souls? See those beggars, dressed in rags, having to go weeks without food? We used to be like that!"

"We're in a bookstore and the shades are drawn," deadpanned Cecily. "I can't see anything but you, and you certainly aren't dressed in rags." She eyed Tessa's crisp black attire.

Tessa facepalmed. "That's not the point," started Tessa, but gave up when she saw Cecily stubbornly opening her mouth to protest. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with." She eyed the books that were strewn across the floor.

The two girls worked well into the night, and soon they found themselves full and washing dishes in their dusty, compact kitchen. (_At least they _had_ a kitchen, _thought Tessa, glancing disdainfully at the raven-haired girl, who was whistling cheerfully and drying the dishes with a stained rag.) Finally, after much idle chatter, the dishes were cleaned and the kitchen scrubbed (to which Tessa insisted was cleaned, since she was OCD) and soon enough Tessa was helping Cecily get ready for bed.

"Aren't I a _bit _too old for this?" grumbled Cecily, whose wet hair was being combed by the Tessa.

"Not at all," said Tessa, who secretly liked to watch Cecily get embarrassed by her motherly ways. She untangled the last knot in the black mess and stepped back. "Ta-da!" she said, doing jazz hands. "All done!"

Cecily groaned. "Tessa..."

"What?" Tessa asked innocently. She thrust a pile of white clothes towards Cecily. "Change into this," she ordered. "I'll be waiting outside."

Cecily rolled her eyes, but obliged, slipping on the cotton PJs and stepping back into her room. Tessa was waiting on Cecily's bed, drumming her fingers on the musty linen. She quickly stood up upon Cecily's arrival and bustled her into bed.

"Again, aren't I a bit too old for this?" said Cecily as Tessa fussed over her.

"What are you talking about?" said Tessa, tucking the thin blanket up to Cecily's chin. "There. You're done. Good night." She kissed the top of Cecily's forehead.

"Tessa, I'm not a baby - " started Cecily indignantly, but was arrested in mid-yawn.

Tessa was thoroughly amused by this. "Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite," whispered Tessa, wondering how far she could push it.

"Oh, come on, Tessa, that's so - " started Cecily irritably, and then started to snore, her cheek mashed up against the pillow.

Tessa, chuckling, quietly closed the door and allowed the little girl to sleep contentedly. She started towards her bedroom, which was right across from Cecily's, intending to get in a bit of writing before retiring to sleep.

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><p><strong>Brooke: Wow. My hands are shaking so badly, I'm so excited to publish this! I'm really at loss for the genre, though. If fanfiction allowed us to have more than one genre, I would probably take: TradegyHurt/Comfort/Romance/Action/Drama/Friendship/Angst/Adventure/Mystery. But we can't, so I'll just settle for Action and Romance. **

**Will: What about humor?**

**Brooke: I don't think so, Will. I haven't really included anything remotely funny yet, nor am I planning too. Maybe a bit of humor to lighten things up a bit, but...**

**Will: It was hilarious! The quality of your writing is so bad, it's laughable!**

**Brooke: Oh, shut up. We've already got enough of you with you being in the next chapter...if there is a next chapter. 'Cause if nobody reviews and says they want me to continue, really no point in writing the story. **

**Will: *sigh* Nobody's going to review because of you. So what about this: Review if you like me!**

**Brooke: What?! No!**


	2. The Art of Being Parabatai

**Brooke: Yay! Thanks so much for reviewing! I fixed the grammar errors, which I unfortunately had a lot of. That's what I get for not doing a grammar check. *hits head* Though I LOVE LOVE LOVE reviews, I strongly encourage you to follow - not because I'm one of those writers who is obsessed with favs and follows, but because I'm going to run some pretty spontaneous updates on this story. **

**Will: Nobody likes your story. They're only reviewing because of ****_me. _**

**Brooke: Oh yeah? I've got 10 reviews, and I think _two_ of them said that they loved you. Pretty bad ratio, eh? And darkwhiteangel said, and I quote: 'Yes and please do continue, because of you not will. Take that! Huh will, wallowed in your shame enough?' **

**Will: ... She was playing hard to get?**

**Brooke: "=.=I'm so glad I don't own you.**

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><p><strong>~A Book Without Words~<strong>

_**A TID fic by**_

**Marie E. Brooke**

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><p>William Herondale twisted the rusted wrench in his hands, squinting to make out the complex wiring in the machine. The witchstone flickered unevenly, and Will struggled to keep up with the rapidly fading illumination, his nimble fingers working at the screws and gears.<p>

James Carstairs, Will's best friend and _parabatai_, tapped his foot and looked down at his wristwatch. The faint light from the witchstone revealed Jem's silvery hair and his eyes, which were speckled with blue and silver. "Will," he started, glancing worriedly at his raven-haired companion, "are you sure you want to do this? It's against the rules, you know."

"That's what you said when I changed all the speakers to say, 'Ducks are demonic bastards!' on one hour intervals, but I didn't get in trouble then," Will pointed out, still focusing at the task at hand.

Jem sighed. "True, but you only escaped punishment when I lied to them about your whereabouts," said Jem.

"Exactly. And if they ask, I had a terrible headache, so I stayed in bed until noon," Will instructed him. "Besides, this one is going to be the best prank I've ever pulled. All of the automatons will march into the dining room and start to sing off-key. And they won't stop, either, no matter how many bits and pieces it's crushed into. My planning is flawless," he boasted.

Jem looked at him for a few moments, his face expressionless, and pushed Will's hand gently away from a cog. "If you want them to sing, then you have to rewire the speakers," Jem said quietly, putting the cog back to its original spot and instead fiddling with light green wire.

Will grinned, clapping Jem's back in a brotherly manner. "Now that's the Jem I know!" he said joyfully, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

Jem didn't respond to this, only nudging him gently towards the great double doors. "Come. We should go; breakfast will be in the mess hall soon."

"Ah, breakfast!" chortled Will as Jem dragged him out the room and down the hall. "Never have I been so excited to hear those two syllables! Oh, music to my ears!" He laughed manically.

Jem, who was used to his strange ways, ignored him. "We'll be late," he said, quickening his pace.

"Of course we wouldn't want to be late for the great pranking," Will snickered, spreading his arms. "Everybody eating lunch peacefully, and then these great big automatons storming into the room, singing tunes." He smiled dreamily. "How chaotic would it be, watching them - "

"We're here," interrupted Jem. He opened the great wooden double doors, revealing a large room with a long table. Chairs with intricate wooden carvings and plush gold cushions lined the table. An array of matching gold sets also occupied the table, along with small golden figurines and glimmering gold leaves as decoration. Servants rushed in with trays topped with breakfast dishes: golden-brown pancakes oozing with butter, small bowls of fresh fruit, and crispy croissants.

Sitting at the very head of the table was none other than Mortmain, Will's rich (and annoying, Will privately thought) uncle. Will wasn't too fond of him - in fact, he was positively infuriated at his uncle's antics. Mortmain was out to get him, purposely planting lethal traps just to trap Will in action. Will prided himself on being the better strategist, and for once it wasn't just bragging. He managed to evade every single one of Mortmain's attempts, sometimes even mocking them, which only succeeded in infuriating his uncle further.

"You're five minutes late," Mortmain said coldly. "I urge you to cease ruining the family name with your irresponsibility."

Will opened his mouth to respond with a retort - probably a rude one - but Jem got there before him. "It is my fault, sir," said Jem hastily. "I slowed him down with my - my issues."

Will tensed at his word choice, but Mortmain merely smiled. He had always held a soft spot for Jem. _Just shows to say that Jem is nice enough to melt even the coldest of hearts, _thought Will.

"It's not your fault," he assured Jem. "I appreciate your honesty, however. If only there were more people like you," he added, directing the last part towards Will with a pointed look.

"I admire you for your patience and understanding," said Jem politely, flashing him an angelic smile, which Mortmain returned with his own soft look of kindness, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He gestured for Jem and Will to take a seat.

Will rolled his eyes.

Once seated, Will leaned over and whispered to Jem, "Suck-up. Always using your 'nice boy' façade to lure others into your web of Asian lies."

"It's not a façade," said Jem, unruffled. "And, if you insist on referring to it as one, that 'nice boy façade' has gotten you out of trouble numerous times."

"True," relented Will, leaning back and starting to eat. His eyes darted between his delicious, golden-brown pancakes and the large clock on the wall. He was anxious for his prank to come into play, but not nervous enough to avoid eating his mouth-watering food. He eagerly dug into the heavenly breakfast, not minding Mortmain's disgusted look when he got some food splattered on his crisp, black (not to mention expensive) suit.

Once finished, he put his full attention on the clock. _Only five minutes... _He started to count down mentally. _Five, six, seven, eight, nine..._

"Will, are you still counting?" asked Jem exasperatedly, but not without some amusement. "There's no point in doing so. You're going to know when they come in anyways. You'll _see _it."

"It's more fun to count," said Will, eyes still glued to the clock. _Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three... _"It should be soon," he announced to Jem.

_...60. _

And all hell broke loose.

The doors burst open and a mass of metallic beings spilled out from it, their metal jaws unhinged. They walked jerkily, as if they were being controlled by a puppet master, but purposefully, and toppled chairs and tables, smashing silverware. The guttural shrieks emitting from their throat were reminscents of childhood songs such as _Happy Birthday _or _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star._

Mortmain shrieked like a little girl. "Get them off me!" he screeched, grappling with a metal fist. A booted silver foot kicked him in his _gluteus__ maximus, _making him scream even louder. His servants rushed forward to help their master, only to be knocked to the ground by the whirling automatons.

Will threaded his way out the melee and to the front doors, dragging Jem by his hand. The two ran up countless hallways and staircases until slamming the door to Will's room.

Will slumped down against the maghony door, pushing strands of hair away from his face. The adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, but his peak of exhilaration was fading rapidly. "How did you like that, James?" he panted.

"Mortmain will be very mad," warned Jem.

"Screw Mortmain, that was awesome!" Will grinned at his friend, who could resist grinning back. "Besides, he doesn't have any proof that I did anything, so he can't bust us," he said, adding the last part in with a sort of smug satisfaction.

Jem sighed in defeat. "I suppose," he said. "But I was rather hoping that you have learned your lesson."

"What is there to learn?" said Will reasonably. "I played a prank and kicked his arse."

"The automatons did, actually."

"It's mostly figurative," said Will. "I _could _if I tried, though," he added hastily, for the sake of his manly pride.

Jem chuckled. "Whatever you say, William. If that's what makes you sleep at night," he teased for good measure.

"I can too!" said Will, looking affronted. "Kick his arse, I mean."

"Suure," said Jem, exaggerating the _u. _

"No, seriously!" protested Will. "After all, I am a black belt in karate, I've beaten the fencing instructor numerous times, and - " Will started to ramble on about all his achievements in self-defense, his chest puffed up proudly and his blue eyes alight.

Jem cast an amused look to the ranting boy. _Why couldn't he have the same enthusiasm towards something more useful; say, music? _he thought wistfully. After all, he did have the slim fingers and inquisitive mind of a musician, among other attributes. With potential like that, he could've been a professional pianist or violinist, and maybe even go on tour like Jem did.

As Jem watched Will look down at the chaotic scene in the kitchen below through a glass pane (which was one-way and invented by Henry Branwell), laughing every time an automaton threw a pie at a servant or pulled down their trousers, he remembered why he had reconsidered his opinions about his _parabatai's _"potential." He probably should've been glad that Will didn't play an instrument, because he knew that he would wake up everyday at three in the morning to silence the guttural screeches of a dying cat, otherwise known as Will playing the violin. Or worse, the bagpipes. Jem shuddered at the mere thought of it.

"Will," started Jem, "you know you have to apologize to Mortmain, right?"

"I do?" Will had tore his gaze from the glass to give Jem a stubborn look.

"It has to be thorough," said Jem, ignoring Will. "You must give Mortmain the apology he deserves."

"So, I don't have to apologize."

Jem ignored him yet again. "He is your _uncle, _Will. If it weren't for him, you would be out in the streets."

"If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be having to apologize to the slimy git."

Jem fixed Will with a hard glare. "_Will._" He didn't want to lose his _parabatai _to the streets; he knew that despite his and Mortmain's good bonds, that the uncle was ruthless and selfish, though he dared not to say it aloud. Even though Will was annoying, Jem was bound to him by an oath, and of course, they were best friends and _parabatai. _

Will threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine," he grumbled. "I'll do it."

Jem smiled at him warmly. "Come along, now," he said, opening the door and starting to descend the stairs to the right of it. A sulking Will followed, trailing behind him and muttering curses under his breath.

Like always, Jem came up with a thorough and heartfelt apology, which Mortmain always sucked up like a sponge to water - but, as always, Jem didn't mind, because they were _parabatai, _even if they were quite the odd pair.

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><p><strong>Brooke: Finished! Sorry for not updating sooner. Anyways, I just published a new story called Sorry! I spent a lot of time on it, but it only has one review, and that was from a good friend of mine, Panda-chan. And even then I had to bribe her. So check that out! Also, I just put up a challenge forum, for all you writers and readers. You can challenge people to writing contests or participate in them, and I already have one up! If you're hesitant, don't fear, because I have prizes such as: one-shots, drabbles, reviews etc. And also -<strong>

**Will: Nobody likes your writing and nobody cares about you. They only like me.**

**Brooke: You know what? That's it! Starting from the next chapter, you won't be the only other one in the A/N! It's time for Tessa to come in. Review if you want to deflate Will's ego and bring in Tessa!**

**Will: NO!**

**Brooke: REVIEW!**


	3. The Art of Being Sophie - PART ONE

**Brooke: Hey, peeps! I'm SO sorry for that bad quality of the chapter. I didn't edit it. :( Anyways, thanks so much for the -**

**Will: Cut the crap. Nobody cares.**

**Brooke: Ugh, whatever. At least Tessa is here. Tessa! Hit it with the disclaimer!**

**Tessa:...What's a disclaimer?**

**Will: Just say that Brooke doesn't own us. Mundanes seem to not understand that these idiot fanfiction writers don't and won't ever own us.**

**Brooke: Hey! We aren't idiots! *hits Will***

**Will: You'll pay for that! *hits Brooke with seraph blade***

**Tessa: Brooke doesn't own us...?**

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><p><strong>~A Book Without Words~<strong>

_**A TID fanfic by**_

**Marie E. Brooke**

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><p>Sophia Collins scrubbed furiously at the linoneum floor, determined to polish it up to the point of perfection. Mortmain was very strict about the welfare of the palace, and demanded every nook and crevice to be rid of even the tiniest dirt smudge. Sophie grumbled to herself, plunging her overused sponge into a bucket of soapy water. The work was tedious and allowed her only a small bed and a morsel of the leftovers in return, but at least it was better than being employed by Timothy.<p>

She shuddered, thinking of when she had first stepped into the grand manor. Her family was poor and in serious debt, and she, as the eldest of the three children, dropped out of school so she could find a job. She had visited almost every place in town, desperate to earn enough money to keep the food on the table. After much door-slamming and jeering, she finally managed to land a job at the local inn as a maid. From then she had worked seven hours a day on minimum-wage, cleaning up dinner tables and furnishing rooms. She met many new people, and was very well-liked at the small inn. She worked hard to maintain a cheerful façade, and she was responsible and never spoke a sour word about anybody. Soon, she became known as that "sweet little maid at the inn" or the "responsible girl who knows what she's doing" or even the "most sweet and helpful gal on the planet."

It wasn't long before she started getting job offers from all around. Everybody wanted that "responsible girl who knows what she's doing" to work for them. Sophie gladly accepted all the job offers, happy at the money she was earning for her family by working multiple jobs.

And then the letter came.

It was sent on a Tuesday, Sophie remembered, and was artfully slipped under the broken door of their small cabin so when one opened the door, the letter would fly into the air and land in the surprised person's hand, who in this case, was Sophie. The envelope was closed with a bright red seal ingraved with an elaborately carved _T. _(Sophie felt like there was something familiar about it, but she couldn't quite place it.) Sophie opened it, careful to break off the seal slowly as to not cause the envelope any damage. Inside the envelope was a crisply folded paper, made of cardstock and smooth to the touch. Sophie unfolded it and scanned the elegant script. It was a job offer, judging from the first sentence, which was the only thing that she bothered to look at before losing interest. Sophie, who already had one too many jobs, was about to throw away the letter when she noticed the signature.

_Timothy Torin._

Sophie blinked in disbelief, rubbing her eyes, and peered at the paper again, wondering if she was going crazy from retiring to bed at three o' clock in the morning. Timothy Torin was a well-known businessman that inhabited a faraway village. He was rich, successful, kind, famous...and apparently, he wanted to employ her. She rubbed her eyes once more and stared. It was still there. The curling letters of the signature stood out starkly against the blurred background of the creamy paper, but the signature was still there. Sophie reread it with a renewed vigor. The job had excellent pay, and she was to live there and work as a maid. Since she was to live there and work fulltime, she had to quit all her jobs. That was okay with her. The pay alone was worth more than all her jobs combined, and she wouldn't have to pay for lodging or food. Sophie was starting to think that it was all some elaborate hoax - but, running her fingers over the twisting patterns of the wax seal, she knew that it was a legitimate job offer.

"Mother!" she cried, racing over to the kitchen where her mom was making dinner. "Look what I got!" She eagerly showed her mom the letter.

Her mother sighed and read the letter. Her eyes widened, recognizing the signature."Oh my goodness," she said, clutching the edge of the counter and fanning herself. "I'll tell your father. You go get ready!"

From then on, everything was a blur of goodbyes and clothes and worries and all those trivial things that came with moving into a house to work for _a priceless amount of money. _Her family was ecstatic at the good news, if not very teary and clingy. Her younger sisters had volunteered to help her pack, while her mother and father set out to book a carriage for the next day.

Her younger sisters had been vastly unproductive when helping her pack, and had instead insisted upon lounged around her room - much to Sophie's annoyance - chattering excitedly about the prospect of living in the Torin Manor, while Sophie bustled about, gathering her meager belongings and folding them carefully into her small, worn suitcase.

"Do you think your room will be elegant and comfy?" asked Mellie, one of her favorite younger sisters, giggling as Sophie shook her head at her.

"No, Mellie," she said, a tinge of exasperation evident in her voice. "For the last time, I am working there as a _maid, _not staying there as if I was a wife or something."

Clara, another one of Sophie's sisters, waggled her eyebrows. "Are you sure about that?" she said cryptically. "Maybe he wants you for more...lustful reasons." The little girls immediately exploded into peals of laughter and began talk about things rather...inappropriate for their age.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, will you stop it?" snapped Sophie. The girls only laughed harder. Sophie clenched her fists, slowly and deliberately turning her back on them. She managed to tune out their frivolous (and very vulgar, she thought with annoyance) chatter and instead turning her attention to packing. Excitement bubbled up inside her, reality hitting her like a freight train. She was going to work as a maid for a famous businessman and stay in his manor and get paid a lot of money. She almost burst at the thought...and then facepalmed when she heard a crash and an _oops! _from her sisters. She turned to see the remains of a shattered vase scattered on her worn rug.

"OK, who did it?" she demanded.

"She did!"

**[-]**

The next day, she bid her family farewell with promises to send back some money, and boarded the carriage, the wind whipping at her chestnut hair as she waved happily to her family, whom she watched until they were merely black specks on the horizon.

Sophie eagerly bounded out of the carriage when they arrived, stretching out her sore arms and cramped legs and breathing in the cool, fresh air. She turned to face the iron-wrought gate in front of her, which was of course ingraved with a large _T. _A maid rushed to open the gate after Sophie had finally located and rung the small doorbell that was almost completely obscured by ivy.

_Welcome to your new life, Sophie._

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><p><strong>Brooke: And...cut! So...how did you like it? Did you like Sophie's story? (I had to split it into two parts cause I was having a bit trouble with it, so sorry for the short length.) How it differed from Cassie's? (This may be important, guys, so watch out.) Did you like Tessa's entrance? I hadn't updated in quite awhile, and my writing muse was a bit preoccupied, so yeah. I'm so sorry about that, by the way. Anyways, I've posted like 5 new one-shots (at least) and I think they're all really good. They're all Harry Potter, by the way, and feature various different pairings. <strong>

**Will: *scoff* First you reference the A/N, which isn't even part of the actual story, and then you start shamelessly advertising about your other one-shots!**

**Brooke: #shamelessselfpromoting**

**Will: And now you're speaking in hashbrowns!**

**Tessa: *takes notes* Constant bickering...egoistic Will...procrastinating authors...I don't see how that can all be part of the acronym "A/N."**

**Brooke:...#review4updates**

**Will: Wait..what is that giant font that's coming - AHHH!**

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><p><em><strong>EXCLUSIVE SNEAK PEAK! <strong>_

_**(shhh….) **_

_***note: these may be taken out of the next chapter due to editing**_

_**Snippet 1#: **__Dragging her dirty little suitcase behind her, she couldn't help but gawk. A huge fountain spouted shoots of water, birds perched on top of it but safely out of reach from the water. Assorted flower bushes lined the cobblestone path that led up to the house. Well, it hardly seemed worthy of the title "house." It was…_

_**Snippet 2#:**_ _She had been delighted to work in such a renowned household, and immediately worked to be the best maid, scrubbing furiously at every nook and crevice._

**[-]**

**So...do you want more random snippets? Don't like them? Love them? Please say so in the reviews! I hope you enjoy! Think of this as my little gift to you guys for reviewing a lot (and of course, for being super-duper late in updating.)**


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